


The Shop around the Corner

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Movie AU, Post-Season/Series 02, Prompt Fic, skoulsonfest2k15, the shop around the corner, you've got mail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 17,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU fic (see title) ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skyepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/gifts), [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts), [RowboatCop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/gifts), [RosePark15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosePark15/gifts).



> This started out as a skoulsonfest contribution, then got out of hand and is now going to be a chaptered thing which is going to be edited thousands of times and added to.  
> Not sure what this is, forgive me. The goal, though, should be clear. :)
> 
>  
> 
> skoulsonfest prompts:  
> [MOVIE AU]; [NOT-A-DATE-DATE]; [RECORD PLAYER]

Maybe it's because Trip's gone, she isn't quite sure. Maybe it's because the last guy she had the opportunity to get involved with was a HYDRA rapist. However, this has to be one of the craziest things she's ever done.   
She carefully licks the edge of the envelope (because hey, that's one of those things she still remembers from her first foster mum, and those things she's going to cherish forever) and closes it.  
The front says:

To A Good Friend  
P. O. Box 110352/2  
Washington, D. C.

Deep sigh. _Well, let's get this over with._ She puts on the white pullover she used to wear during the days everything had come crashing down, burying most of HYDRA – she's still in her pyjamas. Carefully, she opens her bunk door (it's only 5 a.m. - she's been trying to write this letter for hours), then sneaks over to the realm of the Koenigs, knocking very lightly. She _knows_ the guys are always up and about at this hour, but still.  
Billy opens. She smiles cautiously.  
"Good morning, sunshine. What can I do for you? You want some marshmallow coffee?"  
She grins. "Thanks, Billy, no. I'm actually on my way to bed. But I was going to ask you a favour."  
He takes a noisy sip. "Anything for the Princess of the Playground."  
A brief look at the floor, then she looks up at him again. "Could you post this letter for me somehow? I don't really want to, you know, raise attention."  
Billy grins. "Sure thing. I'll put it into the Director's mail."  
"What? No! I mean ... I don't want anyone to know about this. You know, hacker-girl-gone-baby-superhero writing romantic letters to a post office box? Not exactly my thing."  
Suddenly, Koenig's hand is on her shoulder. "Trust me, earthquake girl. I'll just put it into the _basket_ I normally carry the Director's outbound letters to the post office with. It's going to stay between me and my _a-tisket, a-tasket_ – you know that?" She nods, smiling. "I'll put Ella on my 'pod and twist over to the post office first thing after breakfast, okay?"  
A cheerful nod. "Thanks, Billy."

****

Right after closing the door, he turns around to Eric. "You won't believe what just happened."  
"What? Skye stole your marshmallows?"  
"Nah. Asked me to post a letter. You know, a written letter. With an envelope and all."  
"That's so unusual? I mean I get she's more the computer freak than the Jane Austen, but I mean, maybe it's to some far-away auntie?"  
"No. That's the weirdest part. It's addressed to your post office box."  
" _My_ post office box. You're kidding."  
"Cross my heart. No. See for yourself, Eric."  
A bashful smile.  
"You think she fancies me?"  
"God, no. Come on. We all know _I_ am the most good-looking among us brothers."  
"Ha bloody ha, Billy. Everybody knows I'm the tallest. And my nose is by far the cutest."  
A frown exchange.  
"Whatever. Then it's a mistake."  
"Or the poor girl is really lonely. Look at the recipient. 'To A Good Friend'. Don't think she'd write that to just anyone."  
"You have a point. But why to my P. O. box, then?"  
"Good question. Let's post it anyway. I wanna know what comes next."  
"Right. I'll think of something. But Billy – don't tell anyone though."  
"Yeah, okay, this is a personal thing, and we like Skye, but I was at least going to tell -"  
"You tell _no one_ , okay? I mean I am kinda flattered, but just imagine Hunter finding out. 'The superhero and the manager'. Not funny."  
"You're not even the manager of this place."  
" ... Another point."  
"Yeah ... right. No telling. Just Ella and me." Billy raises the basket. "Throw it in."  
"Hey, buy some crackers, will you? We're shockingly short of those. And don't roll your eyes."


	2. Chapter 2

The Koenigs' next breakfast isn't that relaxed. It starts with Alexander entering the bunk complex with three takeaway coffees and two envelopes.  
"Thanks for the coffee, bro," Billy greets him. "Hey, man," Eric nods curtly from behind the _Corriere della Sera_.   
"Nothing against your Italian self-education, Eric," Alexander starts while taking off his trench, "but you know you're reading an evening paper, right?"  
Billy puts his hand on Alexander's shoulder before Eric's newspaper hits the breakfast table. "Doesn't matter," he says with demonstrative calmness, rising his eyebrows at Eric expectantly, who picks up the paper again.

The coffees get handed out, and the silent breakfast is only interrupted by the toaster popping every now and then.  
"You got mail?," Billy interrupts.   
"Yeah, but only one of those is for me."   
"Hey, is the other one another stupid receipt from Cole's? I've told them twice, on the phone and per e-mail that I'd never ordered that dinner jacket -"  
"I ordered the jacket," Eric says from behind the paper.  
" _You_ you should be the one to come up for it -"  
"The letter isn't for you either. Neither of you," Alexander tells his coffee, and the other two fall silent.  
Eric reaches for the letter and catches Alexander by surprise; before his brother can reach out to tug at the envelope, he reads the recipient out aloud:  
"To A Good Friend. - Hey, Billy, that's the one you posted, right?"  
"Why would _you_ write letters to the Director, Billy, for God's sake?," Alexander interrupts, somewhat unnerved. "You know you're living under the same roof. Why not write him a memo? Or a text message? Or knock at his office door, Jesus Christ!"  
There is an unexpected silence while Billy and Eric exchange glances.  
"The letter is for Coulson?," Eric finally asks, rolling the _Corriere_ into a tube.  
"Yeah. It's for the _Director_ , you dummies," Alexander huffs. "But _you_ weren't supposed to know about that. It's code. 'Good friend'. It's a freaking code, gentlemen."  
"So what you're saying that the letter I posted yesterday, the same letter here that's been addressed to a 'Good Friend', is going to find its way to Coulson's desk?" Billy is trying to pour himself some more coffee, but misses slightly, looking at Alexander, the coffee filling his saucer to the rim.  
"Exactly, you idiots. You were fighting about the Director's letter."  
Eric lets go of the paper and it slowly unrolls by itself. "Alexander, there's news." He stands, in full strategic conference mode, suddenly all business.  
"Skye wrote that letter, Alex. And it's not code. Well, not really. Coulson had an ad put into the paper."  
"What, into your evening paper?"  
"God, Alex, no. Skye doesn't speak Italian."  
"What the heck has Skye's Italian got to do with it?"  
"Come on, Alex, don't be stupid, now listen," Billy stands up, too. "Skye came knocking on this door yesterday, asking me to post her letter. This letter. I said yes. Then I realized it was addressed to Eric's post office box. I posted it anyway. Then yesterday evening Eric tells me he's seen an anonymous ad in the paper, not the _Corriere_ though, I can see the question on your stupid face. The ad's saying something like, 'not looking for love', 'this is just about the letters'. And the letters should be addressed to a 'good friend' at Eric's P. O. box. And now you tell me Coulson wrote the ad. And received the letter. Written by our earthquake girl."  
Eric, too, looks at Alexander expectantly.  
"I guess that's true. The Director asked me for help in receiving coded mail. He said the codename was going to be 'good friend' and that he needed a post office box," Alexander says, loosening his tie. "I didn't know this was for a romantic thing. I thought it was S.H.I.E.L.D. business. Romanov probably. Although I'm sure, guys -" and he shoots them a few strict glances - "that he phrased the ad much more elegantly."  
"Not important," Eric interrupts again. "We have a problem now. Skye's writing to the Director."  
"Where's the problem?," Billy asks. "Coulson asked for letters. Skye's mailing some."  
"Yeah, but come on. Don't think it's right for them to get involved, Billy."  
"That's not your business, Alex. Also, you didn't see the ad. It's not about the 'involvement'. Get your mind out of there."  
"It's not _in there_."  
"Whatever. I don't think this is a problem. It's safe, right? I just don't get why you told Coulson to use Eric's box instead of your own."  
"I don't even have a post office box of my own."  
"Sure you do. Billy does, I do, and you do, too."  
"I never knew that! God, that could have made a lot of things so much easier."  
"I hope you're not talking about last year's Vegas desaster."  
"I never said that."  
"Right. Go on, give him the letter. But keep your mouth shut, Alex, for Christ's sake."  
"Why? It's not fair. We know it's Skye."  
"I don't think he wants to know. And Skye neither. She seemed pretty anxious about me knowing."  
"You said it. It's going to be your fault when he finds out."  
"Him not finding out is the whole point," Eric mumbles, behind his newspaper again.


	3. Chapter 3

Coulson hasn't expected the small envelope on top of the files Alexander has just brought in. When the Koenig brother leaves, his fingers are almost trembling as he's opening the letter. He hasn't expected any answers at all. He's been placing the ad for three consecutive weeks now, every single day, and this is the first reply he gets. Guess people are just not writing letters anymore.  
He walks around his desk to sit down in the chair, next to the piles of books he's been collecting there, on the floor, in the past month – trying to do some follow-up reading on origin stories, as far as they are scientifically known among S.H.I.E.L.D. affiliates. As long as the letter is closed, he tells himself, it could be anything – from a stupid prank to the best letter of his life (with exception of those his mother wrote while he was in the hospital in third grade).  
Very carefully, he opens the envelope, not tearing it apart like most people would or sticking his finger into it through a corner, but gently unfolding it the way it was closed.  
It's been written with a cheap biro, and the handwriting is neat but almost too cute – not childish, but purposely written nicely. _She's too young,_ he thinks, even if this is just a hypothetic relationship anyway. He just hopes her words are going to convince him that this is the kind of correspondent he wants.

The letter reads,

_Dear friend,_

_I wasn't sure if I should write you. I only read your ad because I went to sit by the river in the morning, and someone had left a newspaper on the bench I was going to sit on. I'm not really your girl when it comes to telling people stories. Not that there isn’t anything that happens that I could tell you about, I just can’t really seem to decide what is important enough to build a conversation about and what isn’t. I’m more one to observe. I used to have a diary when I was about sixteen, but I lost it one day when I moved to another place. I remember it felt like I was the only person in the world to make notes about the nice things you see every day, you know, keep a record about the good things that happen.  
I don’t know if I’m the penpal you want. I just thought, hey, who knows – this man is looking for someone to correspond with, and I wouldn’t mind writing letters again. I’ve never sent anyone letters ever since my aunt died, there was no reason to, but I enjoyed that. Even though, obviously, writing letters to you isn’t going to be about school or boys I have a crush on or visiting for birthdays. I know I can’t offer much life experience – I guess you can tell from my handwriting that I’m a bit younger than you are (don’t know why I’ve never tried to make my handwriting look a little more serious) – but who knows, maybe what I write is still going to be nice enough to receive in regular letters. :)_

_S._

He re-reads it immediately.  
He can’t say he’s completely convinced this is going to be the kind of correspondence he would have liked to expect, but it’s undeniable he’s intrigued. Why would a young woman reply to his ad just like that? And she sounds like, … well, like a vulnerable, observant girl who’s probably had to take care of herself for a while. He smiles at himself reproachfully, this is the profiler speaking. But if he’s completely honest, there is something about this letter that makes him feel maybe not yet understood, but an unusual kind of safe.  
He’s going to reply right after the team meeting.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Skye goes for her walk to the river again. She knows it's not exactly A+ professional behaviour to have some sort of routine, but she doesn't really care that much about professional limits anymore since Billy's started calling her 'earthquake girl'. Not that she's doing openly stupid things, it's just that she's made the rules that apply to her 'more flexible', as Mack calls it. 

Before walking down to the river, she stops at the nearby little street café, the way she always does. It's almost empty at this hour.  
"Hey, Skye," Polly, the cheerful South African girl behind the counter, calls over excitedly as soon as she enters. An elderly lady sitting at the far end corner table, turns around to look at her briefly. Skye grins. "Good morning to you too, Polly."  
"Guess what?"  
"What?," Skye replies with a smile while Polly is pressing a dozen buttons for her favourite blend of coffee to be poured over a sip of almond syrup.  
"The ad's gone." It's almost a whisper.  
Skye's eyes widen. "Seriously?"  
"Yeah." Polly hands her the newspaper, it's opened exactly at the page where the ad's been lurking for the past few weeks. Just to be sure, Skye checks the neighbouring pages, too. Actually, she checks the whole ad section.  
"It's actually gone." She looks almost pale.

Polly hands her the oversized coffee.  
"It's been there for weeks," she shrugs. "Guess he got tired of putting it in every day. Or he's broke."  
Skye whispers. "I replied."  
"What? Are you kidding me?" Polly's voice is almost shrill, and the elderly lady shoots her an annoyed look. "Are you fucking kidding me?", the girl repeats in a whisper. "You wrote him a letter?"  
Skye produces a self-conscious grin. "Yeah."  
Polly lays her arms on the counter and rests her head on them, grinning expectantly. "Do tell."  
Skye takes a few long sips. "There's nothing to tell. I wrote a short letter and then had it posted."  
"You _had_ it posted. As in, you didn't walk your beautiful ass over to the mailbox around the corner, you _sent someone_ to do it."  
"It was a colleague."  
"Right. Go on."  
"There's nothing to go on about." The smile again. "We'll see what happens."  
"Good heavens, girl," Polly says, rolling her eyes, but smiling. "I'll pray for you." Skye grins. "Better do something to relieve your boredom." Polly points at the newspaper. "Do the crossword or something. God, this is so Jane Austen. I'll mention you in my next literature class."  
"Don't you dare." The smile is warm.

She's taking the crossword to the river, her large coffee mug in hand; Polly lets her take it with her, provided that she stops by again on her way back.  
She hasn't really been doing this walk-and-coffee thing often until recently. Until after Trip. She couldn't really talk about it to anyone, so she went out instead and sat by the river. When she does it now, it's still partly for Trip, but it's become a habit, and it's been giving her a strange feeling of calmness. It's consolation, but it's also refreshing and a kind of peaceful and reassuring start into a workday. 

She takes deep breaths looking at the water and makes small notes in her diary. She's taken up keeping one again. That also happened after Trip, but she's since realized how much good it would have done her to keep one when Ward was still around. How much less often she would probably have had nightmares. They still come from time to time, but a lot of them are about Trip. And they've gotten less. She thinks it's the river, too.


	5. Chapter 5

When she walks back into the café to bring the mug back, Polly waves. She smiles, puts the mug on the counter, and turns around to go with a "Thanks, see you soon!", but Polly tells her to wait. She's been waving with an envelope, and now comes running after her from the far end of the counter. Skye feels her stomach drop a few floors.  
"Can't believe you made him address the letter to my café!", Polly rubs her shoulder. "Open it, _Good Friend_!"  
Skye just stands there, letter in hand, her fingers trembling.  
"I'll make you another coffee. Just go and sit there on my bench and, uh, savour the moment. You're crazy, girl."

Walking over to the café's only bench, Skye feels like an automaton. Her heart is beating in her throat. She can't say she hasn't expected a reply. She really has, but maybe a declining one. And not this soon. 

_Dear friend,_

_I was surprised to find your letter in my mail. Thank you for your kind response. I didn't really expect anyone to notice my newspaper, or to waste a second thought on it besides 'oh look, how unusual'. I am not sure what I expected; maybe a multi-authored prank letter sent by a group of teenagers to mock the weird guy._

_But that's not why I am thankful for your letter. It's not because you answered at all, and it's not because I viewed your reply as a literary masterpiece (please don't get me wrong: it's a wonderful letter) - it's because I could see that your words were completely honest. I don't think mankind really needs that many virtues, but I think honesty is the most important one. Honesty, politeness, loyalty, and table manners. What would you count among necessary virtues?_

_I can't help feeling like a teenage schoolboy writing this, but I am really looking forward to a letter from you._

_P._

The next thing Skye knows, Polly is placing a steaming mug in front of her. The girl sits down next to her, smoothing her apron. "What'd he write? Can I read it?"  
Skye just reaches for the spoon and the sugar. Polly picks up the paper.  
"Very nice handwriting," she half-whispers appreciatively.  
Two, three minutes pass in which Polly reads and Skye whirls her spoon around and around in confused circles, earning herself a few annoyed looks from the old lady in the corner, who still hasn't left.

"Holy cow," Polly sighs. "You've gotten yourself quite into something, young lady."  
Skye looks at her, not sure if she should smile.  
"Honesty, politeness, loyalty, and table manners. Your 'weird guy' sounds like he's from the 1940s."  
Now there's the smile.  
"I think he sounds like a really nice person."  
Polly puts one hand on her shoulder. "Maybe he is. Just be careful. You never know who's behind a letter."  
Skye shrugs. She's not sure if she should be imagining a picture of him, probably not, but she figures he probably has a really nice voice, and an elegant, but cool way of speaking. Who knows.  
As soon as she's left the café, she's already searching her bag for a pen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus and the shortitude of the chapters.   
> I still haven't finished the fic, but I'll try and upload more soon. ;)

It's been a while since anyone's seen her. She's been looking at the draft of her first letter, and at the letter she received, and trying to write something nice, something longer. 

_Dear friend,_

_I'm not really your expert when it comes to table manners (anything above two pieces of cutlery makes me feel like I'm pulling a Vivian Ward), but I agree with honesty, politeness and loyalty. I'm not sure though these are the words I would have used._

_My aunt always taught me to be modest, and to not always tell everything I knew. She also told me it was a very important thing to observe things, and to ask yourself what other people felt. I wish she hadn't died so soon - I wish she would still have been there when I'd run away from school (maybe I wouldn't have, then)._

_Looking back, everything she ever said was right. She'd learned how to handle life the hard way. Me too, I guess, although recently, things have become stable thanks to a new job. But let me tell you (there's not much I should feel capable of teaching you), you never know which things you'll be cherishing in the future until you suddenly have to cope without them for a long time._

_S._

May taps her shoulder when Skye finally leaves her bunk again to get some tea or cocoa and some snack from the Playground kitchen. She flinches.  
"You alright?"  
Skye nods. "Thanks, May, I'm fine. Just gonna grab something from the kitchen."  
"See you at training later?"  
Skye smiles. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, May."  
Her S.O. walks down the corridor to her bunk, and Skye feels weirdly guilty. It's as if this man she doesn't even know has started to take up this tiny little spot in her brain and been keeping her from really focusing on anything else. _Polly was right,_ Skye tells herself as she's putting her mug into the microwave. _This really is crazy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. YAY. (Especially considering I started this whole thing in January.)

The next day, Coulson asks her to go to Boston with him and talk to a gifted person; they need some intel on where HYDRA has been recruiting people with powers. She immediately says yes because hey, road trips with Coulson are always a good idea.

"Aren't we flying?," she asks when after ten minutes, they still haven't left the ground, and she can't help sounding a tad disappointed. He smiles, and Skye suddenly remembers why that's one of the best things around.   
"I'd love to, but Mack tells me there's a certain metal part he needs to replace, and we kind of haven't gotten to it yet." She smiles knowingly.  
"Hope you won't get bored too soon," he adds after the next crossroad.  
"Nah, you know I like being on the road."  
She looks at him and Coulson kind of maybe almost forgets to smile back for a split-second. He more or less hides it though by looking into the rear mirror.

Skye has to admit this is the best road trip she's ever been on. Coulson keeps stopping at taco places because she's been pretty enthusiastic about the first taco they've gotten at a gas station. And they're listening to this kind of vintage radio station where pretty much all they play is swing music. At one of the gas stations, he's even made her get out and twist to one of the Charlestons on the radio. Her sides still hurt from laughing. At their last stop before Boston, Skye manages to get some of her cappuccino cream on her jeans because she's been trying to handle it with a straw. Coulson's smirk keeps her from getting too angry over it. 

"You know, my mother used to say there were only a few important rules in life: Politeness, loyalty, honesty -"  
"- and table manners, I guess, thank you very much, I _know_ , look at me. But how would I know we were going to have coffee at a place that doesn't have enough spoons for, what, like, five guests?"   
She laughs and keeps poking at her cappuccino with the straw, only faintly taking notice of Coulson's momentary irritation before he continues speaking.  
"Yeah, my mother always insisted I behave correctly at a table. I remember we once had dinner at the mayor's place after my father died, and there were just so many pieces of cutlery that neither of us knew where to begin. We tried copying the mayor until my mother realized he was just kind of switching from forks to spoons whenever he saw fit. She laughed so loud that the mayor's wife almost fell of her chair. I'd never seen my mother laugh like that."  
Skye smiles a very warm smile. "Your mother sounds like a wonderful person."  
"Yeah, she was." He smiles back, and for a moment, she can't remember where they are exactly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. :)
> 
> I'm moving right now and it's just soooo annoying and I'll try to have some stuff up soon. Also, the skoulsonfest_redux is coming and I'll rather try to squeeze some contributions out of myself until then. :)

Only a few hours after they're back at the Playground, Billy knocks at her bunk door. She's just gotten out of the shower, her hair's still twisted into a towel, and she has to dry her hands again carefully before opening the envelope.

_Dear friend,_

_I've been thinking about what you said about cherishing things as soon as they are gone. There are a few letters from my mother from when I was at the hospital for a while when I was a teenager. She'd copy some interesting things from the newspaper (mainly the sports section, as you can imagine), send me old photographs, doodle something for me, tell me about some funny things that had happened in the neighbourhood. Mostly, she'd try to distract me from my white bed in my white room, and she succeeded pretty well. She'd send me a letter every day, and they were never short._

_Back then, they were just letters to me, even though I lived for those moments when I'd hear the postman flirt with my nurse, because that meant there was going to be a letter for me from my mother. Now I think that I stayed sane thanks to those letters only._

_P._

She has to sit down on her bed and read the whole thing again. Skye knows they are just simple words, but the way this guy writes about his mother, she feels about her aunt. Not that she ever was in the hospital for a really long time, just that once, when she got some stitches just above her knee after that guy Pete pushed her off the diving platform in fourth grade. But she kind of understands the idea of almost running mad because you're confined to a sterile, hostile place.

She hides the letter under her pillow and runs off to train with May (she keeps running late these days). When she bumps into Coulson outside her bunk, she almost feels guilty about the letters. It's not something she'd really want to tell anyone about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the whole thing. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short next chapter. (They're getting shorter overall, I'm afraid. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to update this whenever I'm sure I can actually leave the next part the way I wrote it without getting into cahoots with parallel canon.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry for not updating this more regularly. I'm really struggling with writing this since things on the show evolved so quickly and there were so many plot twists. I know this is supposed to be AU anyway since I want it to relate to a movie (haha), but stuff basically gets jossed permanently. It's just so hard for me to decide how to proceed with this (while picking up the show's most important plot elements without actually destroying my AU plot arc). Bear with me. ;)

Things switch to happening too fast, and before Skye gets another opportunity to sit by the river and write a letter to P., her parents are more or less both dead and she's struggling to adjust. She's not sure who she is anymore: not Mary Sue, that's for sure, and not any of the aliases she'd been in the habit of making up before joining S.H.I.E.L.D. But she doesn't feel like Skye anymore, either. _Skye_ has always been fine with being alone. Not with being lonely, but with handling her baggage on her own, with making plans without any sort of advice input, with having nightmares about escaping from the orphanage and getting caught, about the motorcycle guy she'd seen do a full salto against a glass front dying during her first aid routine.  
But this – this _person_ she feels she's gradually become ever since Trip … disappeared, this weird young insecure woman with inhuman powers, all she wants is to feel like she belongs somewhere, like she is part of a group. And it's not like she never thought that she did. Because she did. Driving Coulson around in Lola never felt like anything but friendly conspiration, like a partners-in-crime weekend event. But sometimes she still feels like the only one of her kind on the planet, and one Tuesday night, she remembers P.

_Dear friend,_  
_first of all, I need to apologize for not replying to your last letter. I'm sure you thought I'd stopped altogether, and I'm really sorry. I don't really know how to explain. To put it bluntly, I managed to lose both my parents since I received your letter. I guess it doesn't affect me as much as one would expect, that's because I haven't been in touch with them at all in ages. But skipping all the weird feelings that I guess I should be classifying as a grief and loneliness parade … I'm just not exactly sure who I am anymore at the moment. This is going to sound strange to you, but when I was younger, I'd always been fine with being alone. Not that I was particularly fond of spending time alone, but I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I usually handled it well enough so as not to feel too lonely. Now I just feel like I'm the only survivor of an apocalypse and nobody can really say they're able to relate. I know I'm not the only one who's ever lost things and people, and I'm not trying to whine here. But this is new to me, and I don't think I can change it without making substantial changes to who I think I am._  
_I hope you're not mad at me. I know it's pretty unfair of me to just disappear and then expect you to take up things where I left them, and to just understand me even though I'm not really telling you anything. But I promise that me not writing to you had absolutely nothing to do with anything you did. I'm sorry. I'm really trying to figure out some stuff I feel I can't really share with anyone._  
_S._

That night, she leaves a note in front of May's bunk door to tell her she won't be able to make it to training at five-thirty in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. :)  
> ♥  
> Not sure I'm making sense at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More. Short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chaos! Yay. Hope the story is still going to make sense. You're welcome to point out mistakes (the plot kind). :)

She feels a lot better after having slept in. When she enters the kitchen to get some cocoa and cookies as some sort of late, self-indulging breakfast, she bumps into May.  
"Feeling better?"  
"Uh … yes, thank you. I'm sorry. I needed a little me time."  
"Sure. Be careful around Coulson today. He's a little … distraught."

Coulson is actually sitting at the small kitchen table, feet on the second red plastic chair, hunched over a large cup of coffee and something that looks like a black notebook, scribbling, not even flinching when she opens and closes the fridge, not even looking up when the microwave makes a triumphant finish sound. She feels tempted to look over his shoulder, then remembers May's words and just tiptoes back out of the kitchen so as not to startle him.  
Online TV helps her kill her a few hours until Billy knocks on her door (she knows it's Billy, because there's a really characteristic rhythm to his knock whenever he's enthusiastic about her receiving a letter from her _friend_ ). She can't deny she feels her heart beat in her throat the the thought that P. is still feeling inclined to reply to her letters after her failing to acknowledge their correspondence habit for so long.

Reading the letter makes her very heartbroken and very well understood at the same time.

_Dear friend,_

_I'm not mad. How could I be mad? I didn't ask you to reply to my clumsy letters a.s.a.p., and it certainly does sound like you have enough on your plate right now. But I'm very glad you wrote. Whenever things don't go the way I imagined them to, I tend to obsess about how I probably did something wrong. (That's probably a matter of age, too.) So, thanks for saying what you said._  
_And who knows, maybe it was for the better that we haven't exchanged letters for a while now. Don't get me wrong – it's just that a ton of things happened where I work, involving people I care about, particularly a friend of mine who I felt I could always rely on and who got the worst of it all. We've been through a lot and it really hurts to see how much they are struggling. To be honest, though, I'm being told that I'm falling apart. Not sure if I should be blaming my upcoming mid-life crisis or rather a traumatic experience of loss that occurred while we've been, well, not writing._  
_Sorry. This is probably not the reply you were hoping for. To sum it up: no, I'm not mad at all. I think I can relate. I'm also trying to figure out who I am, or rather, who I want myself to be (or not become). Things can change so fast and I'm not sure there are any constants in my life right now that I should be navigating by (especially given that the constants I usually refer to are people who – not unlike you – have enough on their plate without me asking questions about Northern Stars to gear my maps to)._  
_Ultimately, I'm very sorry for your loss. I won't ask you for details since I know how painful questions can be when the cuts are still this deep. Let me just say I have become an expert on how to be an orphan without opening up about losing your parents to anyone. Take care. I'm always here, whatever you need._

_P._

That night, she tucks the letter under her pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I'm happy with how this one turned out. I feel like I need to make some u-turns. Hope it's still ... readable. :)

The following few days are actually some of the worst she’s had lately; everything seems to revolve around catching an Inhuman person gone rogue and Skye can’t help but identify with them. It’s a classic story: trouble fitting into a system, getting your loved ones killed, plotting to take revenge, and it all ends with the poor guy getting shot. The worst of it all is that the FBI actually forces them to declare it was a suicide. It’s not exactly something they haven’t seen before, but it hits very, very close to home nonetheless.

Skye spends the night writing pages and pages and pages, crossing things out, wasting tons of paper, not sure what to send. Coulson knocks on her door some time around three in the morning, brings her a cup of tea. She instantly covers the pages with her arms, and his look turns very sad all of a sudden. Skye’s about to apologize, but as she turns around to face him, the door’s closed again. In the end, she throws all the sheets out, feeling as though she’s not really in the state of mind to write a candid letter to a stranger who’s sort of becoming her friend.

She doesn’t fall asleep until probably seven, and she wakes to Alexander trying to push an envelope into her bunk (she knows it’s him because the things he’s muttering under his breath are pretty unique signal words of frustration). After a short while, he gives up and just leaves the envelope there, halfway through her door. Still drowsy, she gets up to check what’s in it, and it actually takes quite some effort to pull the envelope inside her bunk because it’s sort of crumpled. The words aren’t that intense, but P. seems to have been somewhat emotional while writing (his handwriting looks ... distressed). 

_Dear friend,_

_this has been a very straining week. I’ve witnessed a tragedy that was sad enough in itself, but it really affected a friend of mine and I can’t figure out how to comfort her. I’m not sure she wants comfort, either._

_I’ve spent the night trying to write a comprehensive letter of what has been going on over here, but on second glance, everything I wrote down seemed so stupid and I couldn’t bring myself to send any of it. Also, I realize it’s not my turn, so I apologize if my letter is bothering you. I don’t mean to be importunate, I’m sorry. This week just was sort of the cherry on top of everything I’ve been trying to figure out lately._

_When I was still a kid, my mother used to tell me I should look after my own problems and deal with others’ worries later, but somehow I don’t think I’ve ever succeeded in implementing that. It’s probably the reason why I’m in a position at work that requires quite some responsibility, but it’s also the reason why I don’t really sleep a lot at night._

_Again, I’m sorry. I guess I just needed to tell someone. I know the stuff I just told you is not a lot and that it probably won’t make a lot of sense to you. I guess what I actually need is a hug. That’s what everybody’s eyes here at work seem to be implying, too._

_Thank you.  
P._

Still in her pajamas, she walks over to the table, sort of just wipes all remaining paper she’s scribbled on off of it and starts anew. After one and a half pages, she crosses everything out, tears another sheet in half and just writes,

_Dear friend,_

_Never apologize. Not for writing, anyways. To be honest, looking forward to your letters is something that helped me manage not to keep my focus on the stuff that’s been going on here (yeah, over here, too. Just saw someone die recently and there’s such a story to it and it’s all etched on my mind. Can’t sleep either)._

_I was going to write you a long letter, I wasted about a ton of white paper, whatever. It didn’t turn out the way I wanted, so I’m sorry, you’ll only get this. What would you say if I suggested we have coffee somewhere some time? Like, in real life. It’s fine if you don’t want to meet. I just thought ... it could be nice to talk to each other in person. We’re already friends, sort of, right?_

_Sorry, I’m a bit all over the place today. Tell me soon in case it’s a yes. I need to get out of here, I guess, for a while at least.  
S._

In the evening, there’s Billy’s signature knock, and he hands her a small piece of paper, saying only _YES_ with a smiley face next to it, and at the bottom, there’s a tiny _when & where?_. Skye can’t help grinning and Billy has this look on his face that more or less says, _I know you’re up to something_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one. It's not like I really know what I'm doing, though.

Polly runs straight towards her when she enters the café.   
"Good Lord, girl, I missed you so much! I’m growing old here and you never show up anymore." It’s a pretty close hug, but Skye doesn’t mind.   
"I know. I’m sorry. So many things happened, I don’t even know where to start. And you know I can’t tell you everything."  
That earns here a huge sigh from Polly, who’s walking back behind the bar to get Skye a large cup of her favourite coffee. "I know, honey. Just tell me whatever you can. I’ve missed you too much, you still gotta spill some things, here." They exchange a smile, and Skye pushes herself onto one of the bar stools.

"God, where to start. I’ll just blurt it all out, okay?"   
Polly puts a huge steaming mug in front of her, leans onto the bar, looks at her expectantly, smiling.   
"It’s pretty scary stuff, though."  
"I’ll be okay."  
"Well ... We sort of almost got ourselves killed. My mother died. My father doesn’t remember me. My boss lost one of his hands. And I can ... I discovered I have some ... hidden talents that really scare the flying batshit out of me."  
"Hold on. You met your parents?"  
"Yeah. Can’t tell you too much about the whole thing. But my mother is dead and my father’s gone. It’s complicated."  
"Whoa. That’s tough. I mean I never even met my father, but my mum and I get along just fine, so ... I guess I’m just glad she’s here. Sorry."  
Skye takes a kind of meaningful sip of coffee.

"And what’s up with that hand? Like, how did he lose his hand? Did it get stuck in one of the ... machines you guys operate?"  
Chuckling. "No. Can’t really tell you but it had to be cut off, or else it would have killed him."  
"Well, that’s creepy. Is he okay?"  
"To be honest ... I’m not sure. Like, sure, physically, yeah. He got a prosthetic and he’s back at work, so I guess that’s fine. He’s coping I guess, but I don’t think he’s really come to terms with it yet. He’s ... well, I know I told you how he always wears ties?"  
Giggling from Polly. "Exactly. I’m tying them now. Even though it wouldn’t hurt if he stopped wearing them altogether."  
"Oh là là. I hear you."

Skye takes another large sip.  
"Yeah. That’s that. And on Wednesday, a guy at work got killed. Police are telling people it was suicide."  
"Same old story?"  
"Same old story."  
"Was it one of those things where the white guys claim the black guy was holding a gun?"  
"Well ... not really. But now that you mention it, it was kinda similar."  
"Wow. Sorry you had to see that. You’ve been having quite a rough month, haven’t you, sweetie?"  
She just nods. Polly’s looking at her with those warm brown eyes and that I’d-love-to-hug-you look on her face and Skye thinks she’s about to cry, but then doesn’t, because Polly asks her a question about a whole different matter.

"How’s it going with your _good friend_ , though?"  
Skye looks at the foam at the bottom of her otherwise empty mug.  
"I’m pretty sure I just saw a smile on your face, honey. Spill it. S-P-I-L-L."  
"It’s not like that. I mean, nothing actually happened. We’ve been writing letters. Not that many lately. But they’re making me feel better about a lot of things. Like, I think we’re actually quite similar."  
"You do realize he’s probably much older though, right?"  
"I’m not sure. I mean yeah, he’s got to be older than me. But I’m also sure he’s not a grandpa, if that’s what you mean."  
"I have no idea. I’m just saying. I really wonder who he is."  
"He actually sounds like my boss a little."  
"You gotta be kidding me. The guy who lost his hand?"  
"Yeah. That’s not a bad thing though. He’s the only one at work who’d always trust me, no matter about what. He just doesn’t question me, I sort of just feel very safe with him."  
"Maybe you should write _him_ some letters then, if you know what I mean."  
"Polyhymnia. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s my boss."  
"Don’t be cross. I remember you saying he was kinda nice-looking, and pretty smart, too."  
"He is, but that’s not the point here."  
"Okay, okay, I’m done. Just saying. You want another coffee?"  
Skye can’t remember smiling this much in quite a while. "Yes please."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. Getting there. If you know the movie(s), you know there is going to be an important café scene.

He wakes to Billy’s knock, and the guy’s got a sort of knowing smirk on his face today.

_Dear friend,_

_thanks for your little note. It made me smile. I’m not sure where we should meet. What about Friday evening, though?  
I think I’m a little scared of meeting you. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not because of you – it’s because I’m not sure that I am what you expect. I’m also not sure we’re looking for the same thing. I haven’t really been able to figure out what I want in general lately. _

_Things keep changing and I’m not sure I’m up for it. Everything seems to move faster than I am. I’ve recently discovered some things about myself and my family and I guess I’m still looking for my tiny spot in the universe (sorry if that sounds cheesy). I’m also kinda thinking about changing my name. I’m not sure it fits who I am anymore. Do you like yours? Who gave it to you?_

_I’ve had coffee with a friend today and it made me realize how much I’ve been hiding inside my own four walls lately. That’s not really something new, I’ve always been one to spend some alone time at a calm place, and I would never call myself lonely, but it’s true – I’ve been hiding a lot and I suspect that my being scared of meeting you has also got something to do with that. How do you feel about it? What are you expecting?_

_S._

His heart is suddenly in his throat, and even though there’s nothing extraordinary in the letter, anticipating the coffee meeting feels like he’s getting a small chunk of his former life back, like getting a baby step closer to normal again, whatever that really means. Going out to have coffee with a friend. A woman friend. In case that’s relevant. It might not be. In any case – he can’t help feeling excited about finally meeting the person he’s been writing letters to for months now.

_Dear friend,_

_don’t worry. I’m scared, too. I haven’t really had coffee with anyone in ages. Not with anyone that wasn’t from work, anyways. What about that café you once had me address a letter to? From what Google Maps is telling me, it’s close to the river, right? That might be a nice spot, and they’re open in the evening, too, I checked. What do you think?_

_And I don’t expect anything, really. Maybe that’s strange, I don’t know; but I have to admit I sometimes don’t dare to expect things, anymore. And I’m not even talking about romance, in case that’s what you meant. I feel like I’ve become a very different person, and so many things have been going on, that I’m just not sure what I should be holding on to anymore. And I’m afraid I can’t really tell you what you can expect of our meeting, either. You said you were scared, but if you are, I am, too. To be honest, I’m convinced I’m not who you expected._

_In any case ... I don’t want to blow our meeting up into this huge event we should be afraid of, that’s not how it should be. I’m just looking forward to finally meet you in person after we’ve been exchanging all these letters. You seem like a genuinely nice and honest person, and I’m looking forward to finally see the one friend I don’t know yet._

_In the meantime, take care.  
P._

_P.S. Time?  
P.P.S. I was named for my father. Nothing special, just a good old solid name._

His hands are shaking as he’s handing Eric the envelope. In the afternoon, there’s a crumpled note slipped under his bunk door. It says, 

_How about 6:30?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stalling. Next one's going to be about the café meeting.

Thursday, she can hear Coulson spending the night listening to Paul Desmond. She can’t sleep herself, so she’s getting up several times to get either milk or a glass of orange juice or to just sit somewhere else (the couch) to get her head to think about something else – not the meeting. 

When she passes his office door for the fourth time that night, she tiptoes across the corridor to knock. Coulson opens, in shirt sleeves, looking a little surprised, so she says,  
"You look surprised."  
"Well, I ... I knew it was you, but it’s, you know, almost six in the morning."  
"I could tell you the same thing."  
Coulson half-shrugs, smiling, and maybe it’s just the lack of sleep and the excited butterflies, but Skye thinks it’s actually pretty adorable. He looks unusually happy.

 

"Paul Desmond?"  
For a moment, he looks at her like she might be the best thing right after Holbein’s _Ambassadors_ (they’d once been on a mission where it had proven crucial to rescue a stolen painting, and it had turned out to be one of Coulson’s favourites). "You’re familiar with – you know Paul Desmond?"  
"Well, I don’t know the first thing about jazz, but my aunt used to be a big fan."  
He nods. "On second thought, she might not really have been my aunt. But she felt like family."

She looks sort of forlorn, her hair a little tousled, leaning against the doorframe of Coulson’s office in her sweatpants and a T-shirt that says, _why not Paris?_ , so she feels a little stupid when Coulson carefully asks her to dance by taking her hand and pulling her into the room, lightly touching the door so it falls shut.  
It’s a weird situation; it might just be the smooth melodies floating across the room from the record player, but Skye could swear there was something at least slightly romantic to it. Phil Coulson in just a shirt, carefully swaying her through his office, her in her pajamas, Paul Desmond seducing everyone with his saxophone, lack of sleep, anticipation, nervousness. 

She feels horrible for even imagining this, but after a few minutes, she can’t help but ask herself what it would be like if she was actually going to have a coffee date with Coulson. If she were actually going on a date with _Coulson_. And maybe dancing.  
"You look a little ... nervous," he says, suddenly, almost stopping. "Sorry. I’m just ... I _am_ nervous."  
He walks over to the player to turn the record to its B-side. "What about?"  
"It’s silly."  
He chuckles. "You don’t have to tell me." Then, he raises a bottle of Scotch. "Care to have some?"  
"Yeah, I guess so ... why not."  
He gets her a fresh tumbler, pours, then refills the one he’s been using.

"I’m going on a date tomorrow."  
He takes a sip, seems to be stalling time. "A date? Like in a romantic date?" For some reason, the idea of her dating someone makes him look sad.  
"To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ll be meeting a friend, but there might be something more. I really don’t know though."  
"That sounds nice. Take care, though. You can never be sure who you can trust."  
"You mean he might be HYDRA? Come on, Coulson, I think I can smell those guys like three miles against the wind by now."  
"I’m just saying." He actually looks offended. Or jealous. But then again, why would Coulson be jealous of her date, that must be the melancholy music in the background.  
She carefully places her hand on top of his for a moment. "Thanks." Then, with a swirl, she’s gone, her tumbler atop his files, the record player’s needle moving back to the edge.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still stalling. I'm sorry. But as you see below, the next one really must be the café scene. Promise.

She’s up early; she hasn’t exactly slept a lot, but this day is kind of important, so she drags herself into the bathroom, makes an attempt to get herself to look nice. It takes a while, and she can’t seem to find a hairdo she likes. After a while, she just decides to cut it off, and she actually manages to cut herself a quite nice-looking bob thing. She hasn’t straightened her hair today, so it’s actually a quite wavy ‘do. Something different, and maybe not so bad. She smiles at herself in the mirror. Why not.

Choosing clothes doesn’t even take as long as she anticipated. After trying on three different dresses that don’t actually look like her, she goes for a flowery skirt and a simple black top. It’s late spring, after all, and the evenings aren’t cold. Also, this isn’t a work date, it’s not something where you’re   
required to look professional.

Passing by the kitchen to grab some fruit (she’s decided to sit by the river, reading, maybe getting a small lunch from Polly’s café, spend the day out until the date), she runs into Coulson who looks pretty distressed; she’s actually pretty sure there’s a tiny razor cut on his left cheek, and she’s pretty sure it’s not because of the prosthetic because she’s never seen one before.  
"Morning, Coulson."  
"Morning."  
"You okay?"  
"Yeah, I’m just ... forget it. Just one of those days. Thanks for asking."  
He’s brushing her off, and it’s a little weird, especially since he was dancing with her last night. She has to admit it almost stings a little. Maybe he is jealous after all. 

When he returns to his bunk, there’s an envelope. The message inside only says,   
_I’ll be wearing a flowery skirt. Hope there won’t be anyone else wearing one. I was going to bring some sort of flower like they do in the movies but then thought it would look weird. Just ask if there’s more than one girl with flowery clothes.  
S._  
His heart jumps, and he can’t help trying to picture her, and then can’t help feeling sad, because Skye’s just swirled past him in a flowery skirt and it’s too easy to picture his date as her, particularly with yesterday night’s atmosphere on his mind. Then again, it’s hard to picture her with someone like him: the older company man, showing up in a suit and tie, waving his prosthetic at her, probably presenting her with an awkwardly old-fashioned bouquet of red roses. With a sigh, he goes through a small pile of files that definitely need to get reviewed before his coffee date.

Before going to sit by the river with a book (it feels like ages since she’s done that), she grabs a large cup of coffee from the café.   
"He’s going to come here, okay? I need you to ... be yourself."  
"You mean you’re _bringing your mystery penpal lover into my café?_ How on earth do you expect me to stay calm? Girl, you’re staging this whole charade and letting me in on it and then you cut your perfect hair and organize the showdown to take place _here_? How the heck am I supposed to not act excited?"  
"Polly. I’m okay with excited. Just ... don’t overdo it, please. I don’t want him to think you know everything about us."  
"Even though I probably do."  
"Even though you probably do. And the café was his idea, just so you know."  
That earns her a small frown. "Okay. But tell him not to ask for soy milk. I’ve run out of soy milk." And with that, Polly disappears somewhere behind the counter, looking for one thing or the other, probably pouting, and Skye leaves with a smile on her face.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of the café scene, I guess. More to follow soon. Thanks for still reading this :)

By the time he’s managed to tie his tie alone, it’s almost a little late for him to get going. It’s the fourth outfit he’s put on; he’s normally not so picky about things, but this is a sort of date, after all, whatever it really is. He hopes to meet her expectations but then again, he’s pretty sure he won’t, what with his age and the robot hand and his weird double life (even though, to be honest, one of those two lives has pretty much come to a halt lately, minus the collecting and García Márquez and the records and unusual coffee brands, maybe) and all the time he’s spent leading not really normal relationships (not with romantic interests, not with friends, nor with colleagues).

He drives to the café in Lola, and for the first time in ages, he feels a few tears trickle down his face. They’re not that many, but then again, he’s not that pathetic – pathetic enough to feel pretty sad for himself, though. Driving around in a red cabrio during a mid-life plus a personal crisis, probably mistaking a strange little meet-and-greet-your-penpal for an actual romantic date, flaunting a creepy little prosthetic, showing up in a suit jacket and tie (he’s ditched the suit’s pants for some jeans, but it feels ridiculously little a change). The only thing missing are sunglasses, he guesses.

When he arrives, he sort of wishes he’d brought a friend. Inadvertently, he thinks of Trip – Trip who’d been able to pick up all possible signs of interest or disinterest, every slightest hint of romantic attraction, all the signals showing friendship potential, all those small details about everyone. Strangely, Trip had always known what to say and when to say it, and Coulson feels he would have been offering him an immense (while incredibly respectful) amount of support right now.

He carefully approaches the café on foot, having left Lola around the small bend next to the bridge. There are some butterflies both in front and inside of him, and he can’t help feeling like a little schoolboy: very shy and unsure about what to do with his hands (especially with _the_ hand, for that matter). Slowly, he walks up to the café’s first window, tries to make out a young woman in a flowery skirt, can’t see anything at first really. There are quite a lot of people inside, and there’s some happy bustling and ordering and waving at other people. 

It almost makes him forget the tension in his shoulders. Almost-tiptoeing to the next window, he suppresses a chuckle, laughing at himself for his childish behaviour. Looking inside through the probably very recently cleaned window, he catches a few more glimpses of the people inside from a different angle, and then, suddenly, he spots a flowery skirt. It’s something between a dark blue and a dark violet, with little light-coloured flowers printed on it. It actually looks pretty much like the skirt Skye wore this morning. 

He moves to the next window to see the woman’s face, but there’s a waitress standing right in front of her, with her back towards the window front, and he’ll just have to wait. The young woman is playing with her shoes under the small coffee table, and that, too, reminds him of Skye, and he can’t help but remember their dancing in his office. There was probably nothing to it, but still, it makes his heart ache to know that she, too, probably didn’t read anything into it that night. And then again, exactly, why would she – why would any young woman read anything into her pathetic older boss’ somewhat helplessly flirty behaviour (in case it was possible to even call it flirty)? And now, Phil Coulson, Former Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., is sneaking around a riverside café to catch a glimpse of his penpal’s face, who happens to be a young woman who definitely expects someone else and not him to show up, while he’s getting a cramp in his neck from trying to see past the waitress.

Finally, the girl moves, apparently having taken up the young woman’s order, and he can’t believe his eyes, because the girl _is_ Skye, fiddling with her shoe and hair (her beautiful, shorter hair), occasionally smoothing down the flowery skirt, looking around expectantly, trying to spot someone who might be coming to sit at her table. His heart almost breaks at the thought that he’s unintentionally led her on, made her think that there might be an eligible and witty young man behind his clumsy, old-fashioned letters, someone she could actually relate to and make friends with, someone who could actually potentially become her lover one day if the chemistry was right; and here she is, hoping for someone new, someone to understand her, someone to surprise her and sweep her off her feet.

Come to think of it, there have been enough little details about her letters so that he could indeed have picked up that it was her, like the handwriting or her way of phrasing things, or that when they drove around in Lola the last time, she sort of finished his sentence about his mother’s advice because she’d probably just read about it in the most recent letter she’d received from him. And he feels a little angry with himself for not having understood that the date she’d spoken about last night was the one she was going on with him, that the flowery skirt she’d already been wearing when he’d bumped into her at the Playground’s kitchen was the skirt she’d announced in her last note to him.

It could still be an enormous coincidence, but since he’s already been waiting outside the café for almost half an hour without spotting any other woman wearing a flowery skirt and Skye seems to sort of wilt next to her coffee mug, he concludes that the _dear friend_ must indeed be her. At first, that conclusion makes him turn around and walk stiffly towards his car, but the hopeful expectance in her eyes haunts him and he decides that he simply has to walk into the café, no matter what happens after that.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the café scene. ;)

She’s been sitting here for such a long time that she’s pretty sure she’s been stood up. Polly’s just brought her a third mug of coffee and has been throwing pitiful glances at her from next to the espresso machine every few minutes. Skye keeps fiddling with her hair, and for some reason, no guys whatsoever have been entering the café for a while. Well, to be fair, there has been one grandpa, but he hadn’t even thrown a second glance at her so she’s pretty sure that was not her man. And she doesn’t even know why she’s still nervous; there have been no hints at all that this should have been a romantic date. It’s probably just a penpal meeting; even though by now, she’s almost convinced no one is going to show up. 

She makes a deal with herself to stay at the café for a full hour in total, just in case something happened, because they haven’t exchanged numbers or anything. She doesn’t want to be the one who bails on the other in case there’s a massive case of showing up late; she really wants to meet this guy. And suddenly, the small bell above the café’s entrance chimes, making her look up immediately. _Funny_ , she thinks as the man who just entered turns around to close the door, _the guy looks just like Coulson from behind._

She feels her heart rise to go beating in her throat with anticipation, but as he turns around, it _is_ indeed Coulson, and she feels her chest float with disappointment, because Coulson can’t be her date, there’s _no way_ he’s here for her, _it’s just a coincidence._ And she must be right, because Phil Coulson is sort of looking around for a free table, then walks sort of into her direction without even noticing her, sits down next to a small table in the corner, close to but not next to hers.

Of course, Polly comes running, because she thinks it’s her date. _Oh, Polyhymnia, if you only knew. That’s my boss._ Polly politely takes Coulson’s order, manages to not sound too bubbly, then sort of passes Skye’s table in slow motion, whispering "oh my GOD it’s your BOSS", but Skye pantomimes back that _yeah, that’s him_ but that there’s no way he’d be _him_. Polly just shrugs, and Skye’s not sure she likes the smirk on her friend’s face right now. 

Then it occurs to her that she’s mentioned to Coulson she was going on a date, and how humiliating it would be if he spotted her here, _alone_ , so she tries to hide behind her book, holding it up high and sort of shielding her eyes from the lamp right above her. It seems to work, until Polly brings Coulson his cup of coffee and touches the chair neighbouring Skye’s as she’s walking back to the counter. Apparently, Coulson’s just noticed her and she can see him approach her table in her peripheral vision. _Well._

"Skye." It sounds friendly. And then again, why wouldn’t it. They’ve been on good terms. It’s just not really the right time to be accidentally meeting him.  
She looks up, and he’s smiling shyly, and she wishes he didn’t look cute right now, because she’s actually waiting for someone else.  
"Coulson, hey. I’m ... I’m actually on a date right now."  
"Right, you told me. How’s it going? Is her -?" Coulson is gesturing towards the restrooms.  
"No, he’s ... Damn it, Coulson, I think I’ve been stood up. To be honest."  
"Ouch. That sucks. Do you want me to join you?"  
"No, I – I mean, thanks. That’s nice of you. But in case he’s still going to show, I wouldn’t want to -"  
"To be seen with another guy?"  
"Uhm ... yeah. Sorry. Hope you don’t mind."  
"No, that’s okay. You know I could pass for your father, though."  
"Coulson. Who brings their father to a date?"  
"Right. Sorry." With that, he turns around to walk back to his table, but she catches him by his sleeve.  
"By the way, I call bullshit. You know."  
He throws her a very half-hearted smile, goes back to sit in the corner, stares at the foam in his mug, and Skye feels sorry for him somehow.  
Coulson’s been such a recluse lately, it’s actually a good thing he’s gone out to be in a public place, surrounded by people, and he was probably just trying to comfort her and make some conversation. She bites her lip; she probably should have invited him to sit next to her.

She glances at the small clock next to Polly’s head, can’t read it too well, so Polly shows her seven fingers. _Oh well._ Skye grabs her jacket and walks over to Coulson’s table. He looks pretty surprised as he looks up at her.  
"I’m sorry. I just thought he might still show."  
"Skye, that’s totally okay. You were on a date and it’s just reasonable not to have someone else sit at your table in such a situation."  
"Well, he’s a no-show anyways. I thought, maybe you’d like to go and grab dinner somewhere?"  
His trademark smirk is back, and Skye immediately feels immensely relieved. "Does that mean you’re asking me to be your _ersatz_ date?"  
"Well, yeah?" There’s a playful tone to her cheeky retort, like it’s obvious. "I mean come on, there’s some serious dinner date material here."  
She swears Coulson just blushed for a second.  
"Carla’s Diner?"  
She nods happily, and Coulson leaves a few bills on the table. Skye half-turns around in time to see Polly hold up two thumbs, grinning. _Oh, Polly._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner.  
> All adjacent chapters to this one are going to make much more sense if you've seen "The Shop around the Corner" and/or "You've Got Mail" (the latter is a remake, I guess you all know that), I guess, but I hope they're still enjoyable without having seen the film. (Basically, I hope there's still some logic to the AU even if you don't know the AU movies. Or any logic to the fic at all tbh. You know me. I'm not an organized fic writer.) ;)

Dinner with Coulson at Carla’s is actually very nice, and there’s a particular moment as they’re waiting for dessert when Skye realizes she’s actually forgotten about her date gone south for a little while. There’s still a familiar twinge, but the evening’s turned out to be weirdly okay.

It’s not the first time she’s had dinner with Coulson; they’ve visited more than 110 diners on their different recruitment and other road trips, so it’s kind of become a habit. And it’s nice to get distracted by Coulson’s unique _haute cuisine_ jokes, half of which she doesn’t even get without additional explanation (the other half, well, little girl Mary Sue wasn’t a stranger to TV), by his shyly proud presentation of how he is actually able to tie a tie now, using mostly his right hand but relying on the robot hand for support now, and by the way he looks at her like she’s actually the best thing of the evening (and not the seriously delicious burger she’s ordered for him or the heavenly sundae dessert thing, or the actually nice swing music they’re playing in the background).

After they’ve slayed their dessert (well, Skye’s definitely _slayed_ it; Coulson, not so much, at least he wouldn’t have used that word), Coulson carefully asks about her date gone wrong.  
"What are you going to do now?"  
"About what? ... Oh, about – Well, I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was a date."  
"How so?"  
"It’s weird."  
"Okay? Weird how? You mean aside from all the meeting someone at a probably romantic date stuff?"  
It makes her laugh. "Yeah. Aside from that. It’s weird because he’s actually ... he’s a penpal."  
"A _penpal_? That’s so -"  
"- so Jane Austen?"  
"I was going for ‘unexpected’, but yeah, I guess Austen fits, too. You mean you’ve met him on the internet?"  
"No."  
"What do you mean, no? How does one get a penpal these days?"  
She smiles, and he thinks he’s probably about to melt, hopes it doesn’t show.

"No, we met the old-fashioned way. I read a newspaper, and there was an ad."  
He doesn’t look as surprised as she’s anticipated. "Really? Don’t you have, like ... an app for the news?"  
She chuckles, and this time he joins her.  
"Okay, so tell me – this was going to be the first meeting?"  
She looks a little more somber now. "Yeah. I’m thinking he saw me and bailed. I probably wasn’t what he expected."  
"Aw, don’t say that. I’m sure it was the other way round. Like, he most probably saw you and realized he was no match for you, so he ran away."  
His little comment makes her think something small just opened up inside of her. 

"But why would he run? I mean yeah, I shouldn’t really be talking because that’s what I thought, too, but basically, nobody said it was going to be a romantic date. So why didn’t he just come inside and get to know me? It seems so sad to be friends on paper only."  
"I don’t think that we are, I mean, that you two are friends on paper only. Ask for another meeting, maybe that’s all it takes?"  
"But what if he doesn’t want to meet? I don’t even know if he was there at all or not. I just told him I’d be wearing a flowery skirt, but he gave me no clues as to what he’d look like."  
"I don’t think he’d say no. I mean, he said he wanted to meet you, right? What do you know about him?"

"Hmm... Not that much, to be honest. He seems really nice and calm, and I think I mainly sympathize with him because he seems to be the only one to understand how I feel." She realizes Coulson looks a little disappointed, so she adds, "Well, except for you, maybe. Even though, you know ... We haven’t really been talking that much recently."  
"True. I think we should change that." Now he’s displaying this cute fake-resolve face, and it inadvertently makes her giggle. "What else?"  
"Let me see... I mean there’s a lot, but I guess you’re asking for solid facts, right? His mother used to write him letters when he was in hospital as a kid. His parents are dead. His mother taught him, like, life principles. He’s been named after his father. He’s - "  
"Sounds kind of like me."  
There’s this twinkle in Coulson’s eyes that Skye’s missed so, so much, but she can’t exactly tell him that, so she just laughs, says, "You’re right, his last name even starts with a P, oh God", and they keep doubling over with laughter.

As he’s paying for their dinner (he’d kept insisting), he cautiously smiles at her and suggests they repeat this accidentally-going-out-to-have-dinner together, less accidentally, though. She smiles at him again, nodding a little bashfully, and he wishes he had something to hold onto for a second, because it’s been such a long time that someone’s smile’s made him feel like _that_.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one. I know, I'm stalling again (because the next key scene is sort of going to mark the end of the fic, I guess). :)

She’s still disappointed when she returns to her bunk that evening and there’s no letter from her _good friend_. Then again, as she’s looking into the bathroom mirror, it was a very nice evening, and she spent it with Coulson. Her reflection returns her smile.  
That’s how she finds it much easier than last time to knock on Coulson’s office door when she returns from drinking a glass of warm honey milk in the kitchen. When he opens, he still looks surprised, but also very happy to see her.

This time, there’s some Ben Webster in the background (she can decipher the record’s title on its sleeve from over here, that’s how she knows, but she’s pretty sure she’s heard him listen to this particular tune before).  
"Hey," she smiles.  
"Hey," he half-whispers, and it does sound like Coulson, but it sounds a little like the Phil Coulson who picked Skye up from her van, like the Phil Coulson who didn’t know yet that he was going to find out about T.A.H.I.T.I. or face Inhumans or lose an arm and a girlfriend.  
"Just wanted to say thanks for taking me to the diner tonight. I needed it, I guess."  
His smile is so bright and so ... open, Skye can feel her knees get a little weak, and she almost feels bad for waiting for a letter from P., because even though she knows it’s just a casual workplace flirt (because it’s _Coulson_ , like, come on, why would he actually come on to her?), this right here is pretty nice.

"Wanna come in? The Scotch’s still here." Trademark smirk.  
She almost nods, approaches, and he sort of waves her into his office.  
"I’ve been at it for a little while –", - he’s gesturing towards his tumbler -, "but if you don’t mind -?"  
"Sure. Thanks." That smile. He wishes he weren’t such a coward, he wishes he’d told her, he wishes he’d actually gone to sit at her coffee table. But then again, it’s still good old Phil Coulson, your loyal one-armed, middle-aged company guy, so – maybe it’s better that way. The thought of what she might say when she finds out makes him want to run away, fast.  
"You okay, Coulson?"  
"Yeah. Sorry. _Voilà._ "  
"Thanks. Cheers."  
He almost can’t look her in the eye.

They sit there for a while, drinking Scotch in silence until he pours them another glass each. "I’m sorry, Skye."  
"About what?"  
"I know I’ve been sort of hiding away. You know, after all that happened with Rosalind - "  
"You don’t need to apologize. I get it. I was just – worried. And also ... also a little disappointed."  
The fear in his eyes is too real. "Why?"  
She’s looking down, smiling shyly. "We’d been on a first-name basis before ... it all happened."  
"But – I mean, there was Lincoln. I didn’t want to ... intrude or anything."  
He’s trying to smirk, but it also looks really bashful and cautious, and she can’t help but flat-out smile at him. "You wouldn’t have been intruding. But you did shut me out, you know, after you -"  
"After Roz and I got together?"  
"Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t want to bring this up."  
"It’s okay. It’s been a while, and she’s ... well, she’s not coming back, so I might just as well be talking about her, right?"  
She raises her tumbler. "To Price. I mean, to Rosal -"  
"To Rosalind."

About two hours later, the bottle is considerably more empty, and they’re sitting on the office floor, tipsy and comfortable, talking about childhood memories and teenage loves, and _oh God_ , Coulson is actually, very, _very_ tipsy. A lot more than her, anyways, that’s for sure.

She’s in the middle of telling a story when he leans towards her and puts his head in her lap, his cheek on her thigh. Of course, she doesn’t mind, it’s fine, also they’re kind of drunk, but it’s definitely _unusual_.  
"Phil?"  
"Hmm?"  
"What would you have done?"  
"What? When?"  
"If you’d have been my penpal."  
"Why?"  
"I mean – Would you have walked into the café? Or would you have left?"  
"... Both."  
"What do you mean, both? I mean ... Forget about Heisenberg."  
He’s actually giggling. "I would have done both. Yeah, both, I think." She chimes in, her laugh so cheerful that it kind of stings, and he feels kind of guilty for not making her laugh more. To be fair, though, there haven’t been many opportunities lately.  
"I think we should go to bed, huh?," she asks when they’re able to breathe again. She feels him nod, so they get up (it’s quite a procedure when you’ve had a little too much to drink) and say good-night, Skye waving at him a little childishly before she closes the bunk door after herself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. Sort of trying to approach the ending.

Two days pass without a letter, then, around five in the afternoon, Billy’s knock is at her door again, and this time, she’s actually quick enough opening it to meet Billy.  
"Hey, Princess of the Playground. How’s it going?"  
"I’m good, thanks, Billy. You got another letter for me?"  
"Yeah. The guy’s taking his time, huh?"  
"I know. I was supposed to meet him on Friday, but he didn’t show."  
"Ouch. You sure?"  
"Yeah, well, nobody came. Coulson dropped in after a while and took me to dinner. Saved my evening."  
"Wow. Well, then. At least you had a warm meal."  
She chuckles. "I guess so, yeah."  
"What a coward, though. He better man up a little."  
Skye’s smile turns a little bitter at that. "Yeah."  
"Well, if he doesn’t, it’s his loss, ‘cause if he doesn’t show next time, I’ll be taking you out myself. To the Savoy Suites no less."  
"Deal." A short nod, and he’s gone.

Minutes later, Billy storms into the Koenig bunk.  
"What is it," Eric mumbles from behind his newspaper ( _El País_ , this time).  
"Guys. Guys guys GUYS. You wanna know what just happened?"  
"Pray _tell_." Eric still has a title page for a face.  
"Where’s Alexander?"  
"Should be back any minute now. Getting bread."  
"You don’t believe me, Eric. You never do."  
"You haven’t actually _said_ anything."

A sigh from Billy, then, the bunk door opens, and Alexander sort of tap-dances into the room.  
"Alex. Alex Alex Alex, _listen_."  
Alexander almost twirls against the kitchen counter, catches himself – "What is it?" –, then sees Billy excitedly fiddling with his lapels. "Eric, what’s up with this dude?"  
Eric slowly rolls his newspaper into a tube. "Dunno. Apparently he’s got big news for us."  
"Big news? Bigger than Eric’s _huuuge_ newspaper?"  
"Oh, for God’s sake, just listen. Coulson knows it’s Skye. Skye doesn’t know it’s Coulson. Get it? She doesn’t _know_."  
"Doesn’t know what?"  
"Come on, Eric, he’s obviously talking about the _letters_. The letters they’re writing to our postbox."  
"You mean my postbox."  
"Your – Yeah, _your_ postbox."

"So he’s playing with her." Eric’s wearing his unmistakeable don’t-mess-with-me look now.  
"No, I think he’s just shy." Billy’s hands are at his hips.  
"Come on, Billy. Shy? Our Director?"  
"He’s an _Agent_ , Alex. Mack’s the Director."  
"Oooh, _thank you_ , Eric. Bet you read that im _El Pace_."  
"It’s called _El País_ , you nerfher-"

"GUYS."  
Silence.  
"Guys. It’s not the point. The point is that I think that if we don’t do something about this, it’s going to go horribly wrong."  
" _Ach,_ come on. What should go wrong? Boy meets girl."  
"Not everything is the way it goes in your _romance novels_ , Alex."  
"It’s also not the way your shitty newspapers write about it."

"GUYS. Enough. All I’m saying is we should pay more attention to what happens between them."  
"You mean apart from the oh-don’t-you-wanna-listen-to-my-awesome-records that’s been going on next door?"  
"Spill, Alex."  
"Nothing special. Records. Scotch. Dancing."  
"There you have it, Billy. What should go wrong?"  
"But you just disagreed with Ale-"  
"For heaven’s sake. _Pay attention_ if it makes you happy, but the way I see it, dancing to records in Coulson’s office is of the good. Now could you two just LEAVE ‘cause I’d LOVE to finish the sports section."  
"You mean because it’s the only section you actually _underst-_ "  
"Get OUT."  
Chuckling.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly getting there. Oh boy.
> 
> ( **UPDATE** : I added one important sentence to this, in case you've already read it.) ;)

The letter Billy’s brought her has to wait until after dinner, because she’s promised Bobbi and Jemma a girls’ night (consisting pretty much of mac and cheese and screwball comedies), and at the ending of _The Philadelphia Story_ , May joins them and then pretends she just wanted to steal a small bag of chips from them. They spend another hour around the couch (Bobbi’s brought another four beers from the fridge), chattering. May isn’t talking too much, but apparently, she feels comfortable enough to not leave. She does throw Skye a small _look_ she can’t interpret, though, when Jemma remarks how Coulson actually looks much more relaxed these days and Bobbi tells her it must be the spring weather, and Skye just wonders what that might have been for.

Back in her bunk, she slowly opens the letter, bare feet pulled up onto the bed. It reads,

_Dear friend,_

_I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. Truly I don’t. And anything I do say will sound trite. I can’t tell you what happened to me Friday night, but I feel terrible that you found yourself in an uncomfortable situation because of me. You were expecting to see a friend. I apologize for not showing up._

_Someday I’ll explain everything. Meanwhile, I’m still here. Talk to me.  
P._

Lying on her back, her mind doesn’t let his words go. _I can’t tell you what happened to me Friday night._ \- what does that even mean? Sitting back up after while, she goes to sit at her desk, drafting various responses until she’s scribbled down one she feels confident enough to send.

_Dear P.,_

_It’s okay. To be honest, I was disappointed, but I think I understand. I’m just a little angry because you had me spend hours of my time trying to figure out if you hadn’t come at all, or seen me and turned around because I wasn’t who you expected me to be._

_I guess you’re lucky a friend of mine showed up. To be precise, my boss showed up. At first, I didn’t want him to see me, because basically nobody wants to meet someone they know when they’re being stood up. We ended up having dinner, though, and that made me feel a lot better._

_I feel inclined to forgive you, though, but I’d still like to meet you. How about Friday, again? Same café, same time?  
My friend is going to tell me I’m an idiot for asking for a meet-up again, but I’m still curious, and I’d love to get to know you._

_Tell me if you intend to show up. :-)  
S._

Billy knocks at her door with a response far too soon after she’s given him her letter.

_Dear S.,_  
_Friday sounds great. Thank you. I’ll be there.  
P._

There’s a small daisy pressed between the folded paper.

"Yeah, you better be," she laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of Coulson's apology is taken more or less pretty directly from the Ephron sisters' adaptation ( _You've Got Mail_ ).


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I'm trying to incorporate at least tiny bits of Season 03 into my AU. Don't ask. It seemed necessary.

Skye wishes at least one week would pass without any major ‘work’ events, but it’s not really happening. The current state of matters is that Hunter’s left S.H.I.E.L.D., albeit on amical terms, but Bobbi’s still crushed (and Mack is carefully following her pretty much everywhere; when Jemma tells Skye he looks a little like a puppy, she can’t help giggling).   
Lincoln has left, too. As dramatic as their ‘affair’ two months ago may have been, it ended up being just as short. Sometimes, Skye feels a little guilty for not telling P. about it, but then again: who knows what he hasn’t been telling her. 

She’s actually not sure why she can’t stop interpreting their connection romantically. Maybe it’s the fact they haven’t met, maybe it’s because they’re doing this old-fashioned letters thing, maybe it’s because P. sometimes reminds her of Coulson. It’s all the more confusing since her relationship with Coulson has been improving again. Not that they’ve ever really been on bad terms, but it’s just the way he told her: after initially letting their relationship improve dramatically, he’d been hiding after the whole Maveth thing, and she’s been all the more grateful for how things have evolved since.

Still, it’s been hard to find herself inmidst all of these events because she hasn’t really had too much time to reflect. Sure, she’s had the occasional coffee by the riverside, but _a girl can’t walk around tackling existential questions 24/7_ , right?  
The first thing she does after morning workout that day is walk over to Polly’s café again.

"Girl. You haven’t exactly been a regular here lately, huh?"  
"Yeah, I know. Things have been a little complicated. But I think it might be getting better."  
"Yeah? What’s going on with your _good friend_?"  
"We’re going to meet again."  
"You mean, you’re going to try to meet him again?"  
"I guess, yeah. Same place, same time."  
"Wait, so you mean – this Friday? Here?"  
Skye nods.  
"Double latte with cinnamon coming _right up_ , sweetie. Has to be celebrated."  
"Don’t celebrate too soon. We’ll see how it turns out."  
"Well, it is going to be worth celebration, if you ask _me_."

As Skye’s playing with the foam of her coffee, she adds shyly, "There might be something else to celebrate, though."  
Polly’s at her side in an instant, elbows on the counter. "Do tell."  
"Nooo, not like that," Skye giggles, "nothing romantic. But I might be changing my name."  
"What other reason is there for changing your name than the one I keep thinking about?"  
"I just – it’s complicated. I kind of want to take the name my parents gave me."

"Wow, okay ... I guess I get that. But why? Why now?"  
"I’m not sure. Everything is changing, and I think I’ve changed quite a bit too. And now that my mother’s dead and my father’s ... gone, I feel it would be the right thing to do."  
"A lot of things are right things, but do you _want_ to do it?"  
“... Yes. It’s – I’m different from when I chose that name. I’m not saying it was wrong to call myself Skye, that’s still part of who I am. I can’t really explain it. But I’m also a different person now, and this person feels a lot more than myself."  
"Is this about those talents you mentioned?"  
"Yeah. It’s -"  
"- complicated?"  
"You can’t show me?"  
"No, I – I guess not. Not without giving stuff away about what I do at work, I’m afraid."

"That’s fine by me, you know? As long as I – as long as I know what to call you, I guess."  
Chuckling (there’s coffee foam involved).  
"It’s going to be _Daisy_."  
"Daisy? Like the flower? That’s what you parents called you?"  
Skye – or rather Daisy – just nods, smiling a little.  
"That’s so cute. I mean, I get that I’m named after one of the nine muses, but I’d love to have a more ... a more tangible name, I guess. Something cute."  
"I love your name, Polly. And come on, you’re the muse of poetry and dance or something, right? And singing? That’s beautiful."  
"Thanks, Sk- ... Daisy." A beat. "Come here." Hugging. "Hope you’re aware though that I’m going to call you Flower Girl from now on," Polly tells her as she’s getting ready to leave. "Fine by me," Daisy smiles, and for the first time, things actually feel very _fine_.

When she returns, she heads straight for Coulson’s office door. It’s a little early for Scotch, but he’s listening to records while doing some paperwork, just as she expected, some 1930s movie soundtracks this time.   
For some reason, he still looks a little surprised upon opening the door.   
"Skye. Come in. I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything to drink this time, but -"  
"Thanks, Phil. It’s – I just wanted to tell you something important."  
There’s a little fear in his eyes, but mostly respect, and he instantly walks over to the record player to stop the music, then gestures towards a second chair.  
"I’m – I’ve decided to change my name."

He swallows, sits down.  
"I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I’ve felt like everything around me changed so fast, until I realized that even though that was of course true, it was me who changed the most. I’m not the same girl who S.H.I.E.L.D. kidnapped out of her hacker van."  
"It wasn’t technically kidn-"  
"What I’m trying to say is that while part of me is still the same Rising Tide hacker, I’ve changed so much, mainly because of my ... powers but also because of everything that’s been happening. It feels wrong to cling to a name I gave myself when it seemed most fitting for the situation I was in."  
"So you’ve found your tiny spot in the univ-"  
"Daisy. Daisy Johnson."  
There’s a beat in which Coulson doesn’t say anything, then he manages to reply, with the slightest smirk on his face, "Done, Agent Johnson."  
She briefly nods at him, returning the half-smile, then makes a run for the kitchen. Celebratory ravioli, courtesy of the Koenigs’ canned supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly, I really couldn't go on calling Daisy Skye anymore, even though, you know, it's an AU that's coming from Season 02. Anyways. I think it's more appropriate now. ;)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini-chapter because I sort of just needed an introduction for the finale. :) So, yeah, _really_ short.

She’s sitting on one of the kitchen’s red plastic chairs, enjoying her Agent Daisy Johnson ravioli when Alexander pirouettes into the kitchen. Admittedly, she almost chokes on one of the ravioli, but manages to hide it by clearing her voice.  
"Alex."  
"Skye. I mean, Daisy. Apologies. Coulson’s sending you a memo."  
"A – a memo? You know he could just message me on my phone?"  
"He said you were going to be in the kitchen. Without your phone."  
"How would he kn-"  
"He mentioned something about how you were in the habit of celebrating things with canned ravioli, just the way you did when Whiteha-"  
"Thanks. Okay."  
"Enjoy our – enjoy your meal. I’ll tell Billy to get more cans."  
He’s already gone, but she still yells out a _Thank you_ , just to be safe.

The memo says,  
 _How about diner dinner? Friday evening? Late? – Phil_  
Her heart does a little salto, until she remembers that she’s going on a date with P. on Friday (and also, that she’s going on a _date_ with _P._ ).  
And then, it dawns on her.  
P.  
 _Phil._  
And she can’t help laughing but tries to stifle it by eating some more ravioli. She wouldn’t want Coulson to hear, after all.   
Smiling, she turns the memo around, scribbles on its back.  
 _Sounds nice. I’ll be going on a date, though. How about coffee before my date? Friday afternoon? Meet you in the kitchen? – Daisy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've reached the point where the only thing missing from this fic is its ending. I'll try to write it up soon and add it here. I've been thinking about this a lot and I hope it's going to turn out the way I want it to. :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well ... trying to untie all the knots here.

_How about 5:00? We could also stay in for coffee if that makes things less stressful for you. – Phil_

The handwriting on the note slipped through her door during the night – just like the handwriting on yesterday’s memo – looks quite a bit more hurried, but now that she’s comparing it to the letters she got from _P._ , Daisy’s quite sure they are one and the same. She can’t deny she’s still scared, but knowing it’s Coulson eliminates some of her worries about who P. might be. On the other hand, she’s not entirely convinced that it might not actually make matters worse.

For one, it’s undeniable that she’s had a little crush on him ever since he brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D., and obviously, she’s never been very intent on letting him know. At the same time – even though she has sometimes brushed it off as the general charming attitude he’s always trying to display – there has definitely been some flirtatious banter between them. Even so, the relationship they have built and which has survived quite strenuous and also traumatic events is something she’s desperate to hold onto, something so precious but so fragile that she’s really scared to even touch it, let alone question it in exchange for something which – to be perfectly candid – is still nothing but her own speculation.

Yet, now that she thinks about it, all the things connecting _Phil_ to are probably also things that hint at the possibility of romantic expectations on his side – like the fact that he’d been trying to ask if she’d found her tiny spot in the universe, or the small daisy in his note, or how he’d showed up at the café just when she’d been expecting a date; actually, even the tiny razor cut she’d noticed on his cheek the same day. 

Moreover, their small not-actually-dates in his office have made her feel so ... light and balanced, indisputable butterflies in her stomach, that she decides to just show up at the kitchen for coffee and see what happens.  
 _Staying in would be great, if you don’t mind (I know you own an incredible espresso machine). 0500 in the kitchen! – Daisy_

She doesn’t even wait for a reply, she runs over to Polly’s café instead, arriving there a little breathless.   
"Polly! Polly. I got to talk to you."  
Her friend just hands her a glass of water first, then waits for Daisy to regain her breath a little, elbows on the counter.  
"It’s him."  
"What do you mean _it’s him?_ Who are you talking about?"  
"Phil! It’s him."  
"Like, you mean your _good friend_ is called Phil? ... I don’t follow."  
Daisy can’t help laughing, and while it does sound a little nervous, she knows she’s blushing a little, and she knows Polly loves her enough to not comment on it. "No. You were right. My boss – well, former boss actually – is the one who’s writing me the letters. The one who didn’t show up for our date."  
"But he did show up! I rememb-"  
"Exactly."  
"Oh. _Oh_."

"So you’re going on a date with him today again?"  
"No. Yes. I mean, yeah. Sort of not again, though. It wasn’t really a date last time. I mean, how can it be a date if one out of the two people present doesn’t know they’re actually speaking to their date?"  
"Daisy, – you sound confused." Polly’s hand is on hers, and she’s pretty much beaming at Daisy.   
"Sorry, I – I just found out yesterday night and now I’m more or less trying to figure out what to do. I – _damn it_ , Polly, I’ve been dancing with the man. To his records. In his office."  
"That sounds pretty -"  
"And we’ve also been sitting on the floor in his office, drinking Scotch, talking about teenage love stories and childhood stuff. Also listening to his records."  
"Just so I get it right: This is the guy who lets you drive his 1962 Chevrolet Corvette? The one who lets you tie his ties?"  
"Yeah, but that’s not -"  
"The one who took you out to have dinner as soon as he realized that you were actually his blind date but didn’t tell you so as not to embarass you? I mean, flower girl, this deal looks sealed to me."

Daisy shyly looks up to a very much smiling Polly.   
"Come on, you gotta admit, two and two pretty much look like four, am I right?"  
"Don’t you think he was just scared? Like, embarrassed to go on a date with me?"  
" _Sure_ , that’s why his first suggestion was to go get dinner at Carla’s."  
"... Maybe you’re right, I-"  
"Maybe? You can bet your sweet little behind that I’m not putting my money on _maybe_. It’s an instinct I’ve been born with, sweetheart. If he was scared of anything, then maybe that _you_ wouldn’t like what you saw. Believe me, I saw him come in here that night. It’s probably about his prosthetic, or about his age, or about the fact that he’s just such a _dork_ , sweet Jesus. He may be charming and sassy and everything, but girl, that man’s all but sure of himself. Not when he’s with you, anyways."  
She smiles in response. "Thank you. I’ll keep you posted, Polly."  
"Bet you will."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the ending starts. ;)

When she steps into the kitchen, Coulson’s already there; he’s rolled up his sleeves, and he’s apparently brought over his espresso machine from his office. Also, it looks like he’s mixing foamed milk with something else, and there are absolutely gorgeous little chocolate cookies on a baking tray atop the microwave. She almost doesn’t dare enter, takes a moment to smile at Coulson’s efforts, then carefully knocks on the doorframe.

He swirls around. "Skye! I mean: Daisy." Bashful smile. "Sorry."  
She gestures around the room, smiles. "Wow."  
For a moment, she sees him beam, almost like a little child, but he’s trying to   
play it down, like always. "Yeah, I just thought since we’re not going out for coffee -"  
"Thanks, Phil. This looks really nice."  
The expression on his face is so childlike and happy, as if he didn’t dare to hope for her to like his café preparations, and she knows he’s scared of what might happen later when she ‘finds out’ that it’s him. To be honest, it breaks her heart a little, but at the same time, she gets this warm, excited feeling – like when you’re about to give someone a present and know they are almost certainly going to like it very much.

"Please, sit down, _mademoiselle_ ," he manages, trying to keep it light, but she can hear he’s insecure. She walks over to one of the red plastic chairs, gracefully crosses her legs, her modest russet summer dress stealing his breath. Shyly, he puts a perfect glass of hazel latte (it smells incredible) in front of her, adds a tiny blue plate of the small cookies, then joins her with a coffee of his own.

The conversation takes off rather slowly at first, Coulson visibly happy, but noticeably insecure, so Daisy takes the lead; at first, they only talk about current S.H.I.E.L.D. things, about Mack and the great job he’s doing, Joey’s valuable leading potential. Then, after a while, she sees Phil relax a little and they manage to talk about personal things only: picknicking with his mother; being the troublemaker at the Catholic school; visiting the Louvre; hacking into the Stark Tower.

After a second double latte with hazel syrup and another small plate of Phil’s adorably tiny chocolate cookies, they find themselves talking about past relationships, and even though it’s weird to know romantic details about Audrey the cellist or Officer Reyes, Daisy feels as though they are pretty similar when it comes to relationship trouble (Phil’s just dropped the phrase ‘romantic misfortunes’, and Daisy can’t help but chuckle at it, the way the foam on top of her coffee moves to the far end of her glass because of her laughter making Coulson wish she already knew, making him wish he hadn’t chickened out and sat down at another table during their original ‘date’).

When they’re almost done with their coffee (and the cookies, because they are _something else_ , really), Bobbi bursts into the kitchen and stops dead in her tracks immediately when she sees the two of them sit there and chat. Her tiny knowing smirk tells Daisy she approves, and she shyly casts back an almost imperceptible, grateful smile at Bobbi. "Sorry, guys. Just going to get some milk. You know, a girl’s gotta look after her calcium."  
Bobbi disappears, whirls around the corner, but not without secretly winking at Daisy first.

Even though she feels guilty doing so, Daisy quickly glances towards the clock, apologizing to Coulson somewhat shyly, tells him she should be getting ready and leave for her date, and the look on his face is so sad that she suddenly understands that all of Polly’s suspicions were actually true: that’s he’s scared to show up there, now that he’s pretended not to be P.; that he feels that either his age, his quirks or his prosthetic might scare her away in case this was really going to be a romantic date; that he’s afraid she’s most probably not interested in pathetic little Phil Coulson. It might be a little uncalled-for, maybe, even though it’s not unusual for them to hug, but she briefly wraps her arms around him before she swiftly walks down the hallway towards her bunk. It doesn’t escape her that it seems to be lifting Coulson’s mood immensely. To be honest, it takes her a lot of self-control to not squeal at how much of a dork Coulson is before she’s actually in her bunk, with its door closed behind her.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the end]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suck at writing endings, but I wrote one anyway. Hope you like it. ♥

Coulson needs a few minutes to just lean against the now-closed kitchen door. It’s been ages since he last felt this: some people call it butterflies, but if he’s being honest, it feels more like his chest is about to burst with something that’s filling him up more and more, slowly, but needs to be released, something so powerful that it feels more like being able to fly himself than a few timid, fluttering insects in his stomach.  
He can’t help smiling at that.

He’d love to just run and be the first one to arrive at the riverside café, but he’s not really able to decide if that would irritate her, if it would be better to let her arrive first and the surprise her by walking in on her date, _again_. In fact, he’s not even convinced any of this is a good idea; but what he definitely cannot do is let her down again. How often he’s been toying with the thought to just turn P. into an idiot after finding out it was Skye he’d been writing to, in order to not get her hopes up, but it seemed to cruel to be knowingly disappointing her. And to be honest, there was, of course, also a tiny selfish though to all of his indecisiveness; he didn’t want to give up this delicate written connection he’d built up to Skye, even though – to be fair – their relationship has improved a lot over the past few weeks.

He’ll just clean the kitchen up, just a quick whirl through the room, loading the dishwasher, and hurry to meet her. Time’s not really been on his side, not ever, to be frank. Actually, he doesn’t even quite know what _has_. His manners, probably, bless his mother. Other than that, everything just seems consciously acquired and learned: maybe even studied for. Sometimes, he feels tempted to feel disgusted with himself for it.

As he’s carrying back the espresso machine to his office, he wishes things were simpler. That he’d never placed that ad. That dancing with Skye ... with Daisy to Paul Desmond wasn’t just an office coincidence; that he’d been able to just _ask Daisy out_ , without the pretense of not being the guy she wanted to meet and resorting to Carla’s diner to make things seem normal. That he were actually someone else, someone Daisy would see as desirable to dance with, to go out with; someone she’d feel close to without having to keep up workplace etiquette, maybe; someone she wouldn’t have hesitated calling by his first name when the question first arose.

He’s just closed the door behind himself when there’s a knock; and he _knows_ it’s her, even though he can’t fathom why, she should have left already – it’s almost as though she’s been waiting for him to enter his bunk.  
He opens the door, and he knows he looks surprised right now, even though he somehow wishes he didn’t. Daisy’s standing there in her russet dress, outright beaming. "Hey, Phil," she half-whispers, and she doesn’t stop smiling, and he’s almost certain that he’s going to faint.

"Daisy. I thought you’d – you’d left for your date?"  
"Well, I was going to ... but then I thought, why not wait for you, since we’re kind of ... going into the same direction?" Her smile’s still there, but there’s also a tiny bit of fear in her eyes as she looks at him.  
"Wh- What do you mean, into the same direction? You said you were -" His hands are sweaty, and he’s pretty sure that it’s more or less obvious how nervous he is right now.

Suddenly, her hand takes his, squeezes it, and he can’t help looking down at their fingers. "Phil. I ... I know it’s you."  
Alarmed, surprised, he looks at her in disbelief, but what happens next is that she pushes him back into his bunk, very gently, and as he tries to ask, "How long have you kn-", her lips are on his, kissing him, and he doesn’t even dare to think for fear of scaring her away.

As she pulls away, her smile is so bright that he’s still not convinced he might not be dreaming all this, after all.  
"You know, you could just have told me." She places small kisses all over his face, hugging him, then buries her face in the crook of his neck, whispers. "I wanted him to be you anyway."  
And at that, he’s all the way there, he must be awake because this, he couldn’t have made up even in his boldest dreams: it must be real, so he resorts to kissing her recklessly, feeling her pull him even closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this whole thing. You guys are the reason I write this stuff at all. Hope you liked - it's turned out to be a pretty chaotic fic, but then again, so have all my fics, basically.   
> I hope I also fulfilled the prompts to your satisfaction ;), and that I managed to embed the movie AU into canon in a way that you're okay with. I've been meddling around with this fic for so long and now thought I really needed to finish it, because things were getting more and more complicated and canon (and hard enough to incorporate into an AU plot as it is, haha). ;)
> 
> Basically, what I'm trying to say is that I had a lot of fun writing and that you guys like the result, I've never ever ever ever written something this long tbh and it scared the hell out of me. Thanks again for reading! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Bear with me. :)


End file.
